We are sat on a stile on a forgotten White Peak green lane miles from anywhere. A cheese and pickle sandwich never tasted so good. I’m thinking about John Clare. The wind hummed in the branches of the Blackthorn that was kindly sheltering us .I’m surrounded by the withered stalks of cow parsley and rose bay willow herb. Bramble hangs dormant. Beneath the ground where nothing is really stirring. Grey ,pink and mauve cloud banks hurry across the horizon then the winter sun breaks through. The light is so vivid. Green fields, coal black clouds.

Two carrion crows engage in conversation, calls carried away in the wind before a moment of magic suddenly happens.

About 500 starlings rise above the skyline 400 yards away and give us our own live murmeration. It just leaves you speechless. then the are gone. No one else saw the show. The blackthorn returned to talking with the wind. We left as quietly as we had arrived.